


Need Runs Deep

by wishingonalightningbolt



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bottom Derek, Feral Derek, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 10:03:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2187600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishingonalightningbolt/pseuds/wishingonalightningbolt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It would be ridiculous to treat Derek any differently now, now when everything’s better than it had been years ago, when they’re established and safe and have so much more control now.</p>
<p>Except the most recent issue is that lack of control.  Specifically, Derek’s lack.</p>
<p>-0-</p>
<p>In which Derek loses the human side of himself and is a lot more tame than Stiles would've expected. Also cuddles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Need Runs Deep

**Author's Note:**

> If you would like more explanation as to the tags, please read the notes at the bottom!
> 
> Enjoy!

It’s not like Stiles has a lot of stuff to do. It’s two days until Christmas, he’s home for break, and he’s mostly either lying around in his underwear while eating free food, or he’s hanging out with Scott and the rest of the pack, just reconnecting. Still, that being said, Stiles hadn’t exactly been planning on sacrificing these plans to take care of Derek. He does anyway because that’s the way they work, him and Derek, him and Scott, him and every other member of the pack. It would be ridiculous to treat Derek any differently now, now when everything’s better than it had been years ago, when they’re established and safe and have so much more control now.

Except the most recent issue is that lack of control. Specifically, Derek’s lack.

“I don’t know,” Scott says angrily when Stiles asks what exactly is going on. “It was—I think something happened on the full moon. He was in the woods a lot and he was, just, a lot quieter than usual? And then I found him in his apartment this morning… Like this.” He makes a broad sweeping gesture to where Derek is sprawled on the floor of Stiles’ father’s kitchen, wearing nothing but tight, black boxer briefs. He’s staring blankly at the ceiling, but his eyes are blue and he’s got the hairy sideburns, and his claws are out too.

“Has he—said anything?” Stiles asks, blinking at him.

“I don’t think he can? I mean, I can’t be certain but—he’s usually our resource, you know? For these things? So…” He trails off, tucks his hands in his pockets. “All I know is that Kira’s parents already aren’t happy she’s spending winter break in Beacon Hills instead of San Francisco with them and if they were to find out we were harboring a werewolf with mental issues in the same house, her mom would probably run me through with a sword.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Shut up, dude, they love you. You just don’t want to deal with Derek interrupting your full month of reunion sex.”

Scott shrugs. “Yeah. You got this, right?”

And Stiles does. He can handle a werewolf with some attitude issues. He’ll do his research, play the detective, and he’ll have Derek back to normal in no time.

* * *

Stiles isn’t ashamed to admit that he kind of missed physical closeness he used to share Derek. Just about a year and a half ago, there had been—Stiles had been leaving for college. Derek had been happy and loose and comfortable. They all had been. More so than any other time over the past few years. And it had seemed natural at the time.

“I’m assuming you don’t know what you’re doing,” Stiles grumbles to himself as Derek lifts one of Stiles’ arms and crawls into his bed, settling against his body. “You have your own bed, you animal.”

Derek snuffles, the hair on his face scratching against the skin of Stiles’ neck.

“You know, it’s been like four whole days. You’d think we’d have fucking figured it out by now.”

Derek’s response is to scrape his claws very gently over Stiles’ stomach.

“I will figure it out. Lydia’s coming back from her boyfriend’s house tomorrow, and she’ll take one look at you and know what to do, I bet.” He stares at his ceiling, trying not to pay attention to Derek’s warm body wrapping around his.

Within minutes Derek is asleep and Stiles is giving in to exhaustion as well.

He has to keep telling himself that Derek isn’t all there, that he doesn’t know. Because for days and days, Derek is like a puppy, leaning into him, touching him, following him around the house. He tries to follow Stiles into the shower once, obviously intent on soaking in his scent, and Stiles is flushed and frustrated by the time he manages to get Derek on the opposite side of the door, lock thrown, shower running.

“Personal boundaries, man!” he shouts through the wooden door, and he thinks if Derek were really here, he’d say something like: _It’s not like I’ve never seen you naked before._

* * *

Derek sleeps in his bed almost every night now. Lydia is back, but she’s not as certain as Stiles had hoped she would be.

“How many days?”

“Five.”

“Give it a couple more, see if it goes away on its own.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

She shrugs, pats Derek’s face, and heads towards the door. “Then we move on from there,” she says, and she closes the door behind herself.

So Lydia is browsing books and legends and spells and myths and Stiles is a babysitter. To a clingy baby with facial hair and fangs. And Derek really does cling a lot, practically always has to have his hands on Stiles, and there’s one point, in the middle of the night, when Stiles wakes up alone and almost feels sad, because he’s fucking used to it now, even after only a couple of days.

A toilet flushes and Derek walks out of Stiles’ bathroom naked, moonlight coming in through the window exposing the lines of his body. Stiles thinks he should roll over, look away. Derek can’t consent to this, can’t know what he’s doing right now, and he pulls the blankets up over himself, telling his dick not to get any ideas.

Derek slides onto the mattress, nose bumping against the back of Stiles’ neck, and Stiles closes his eyes, tries to will himself back to sleep.

Derek growls softly, one hand resting on Stiles’ hip.

Stiles elbows him sharply. “No,” he says, and Derek’s hand disappears.

He lays there for several minutes longer, but he’s wired now, can’t sleep, not like this. He stands on the mattress, steps over Derek without touching him, leaves him the bed and the blankets and just takes his pillow and leaves, grumbling to himself about boundaries and inappropriate boners as he settles in the guest room that was supposed to be Derek’s.

* * *

 

“You’re ridiculous,” he says to Derek as he wipes spaghetti sauce off of his face. “Honestly, dude, you still have thumbs. Use a fork.”

Derek grunts.

They’re sitting on stools in the kitchen, their knees touching. Derek is still shirtless, but he’s decided to wear pants now, loose and thin, and Stiles is pretty sure he’s not wearing underwear beneath them. Stiles’ left hand has Derek’s jaw in a tight grip and his right is using a damp towel to scrape half-dried sauce from every inch of Derek’s face.

He’s halfway done with Derek’s hands settle on the tops of Stiles’ thighs, claws perilously close to the family jewels.

“You’re not here, dude,” Stiles mutters. “You couldn’t consent even if you wanted to. Don’t be stupid.”

Derek scoots closer, grabs Stiles’ left hand, drags it down to his lap, over his dick, and Stiles shouldn’t be turned on by this. He shouldn’t be turned on by a beta-form werewolf getting hard from Stiles just touching his face, just being around him. He shouldn’t. But he is and for a long moment he doesn’t even move, just stares at Derek’s hand atop his, at the bulge in the thin pants and his palm spread over it. And he has a lot of ideas, honestly, about what he could do with that dick, but it’s—

He yanks his hand away, glares sharply at Derek. “When you snap out of this and remember everything, you’re going to fucking kill me. Just. Stop. Okay?”

Derek makes a soft whining noise, and he shoves himself off the stool, stomping up the stairs. He’s still a little tomato-y, but Stiles figures Derek can sort that out for himself when he’s done jerking off in Stiles’ bed.

And isn’t that a thought. God, it had been one fucking night, just one night in Derek’s bed, literally hours before Stiles was meant to point his car towards Berkeley, and maybe he should’ve come home sooner than December. Maybe he should have visited over a weekend, or called. But there had been a lot of fear, a lot of anxiety, and hey, Derek didn’t make a gesture either. So.

His father doesn’t ask questions. He wants to, obviously, but he knows there are things he doesn’t want to know. He also knows that when it’s important, Stiles will tell him. Eventually. Probably. Sometimes.

“We should fold up the sheets from the guest room if he’s not using them,” the Sheriff says towards the television, sipping from decaf coffee. “Just a thought.”

“I’m using them,” Stiles defends himself. “He’s—a puppy.”

“Stiles.”

“Don’t. Okay? We’re not—just don’t.”

He huffs quietly to himself and moves down the hall to the guest room, flops down face-first on the bed, doesn’t think about Derek upstairs, pulling his dick through his clawed fingers, slobbering over his hands for slickness and growling as he comes all over himself.

* * *

 

“Fairies,” Lydia says, sitting across the table from Stiles at IHOP, picking at her little side of fruit. “Or trolls, possibly. Creatures with easily offended sensibilities who disapproved of Derek’s full moon antics.”

“What was he doing?”

“Scott, Kira, and I went out to see what we could find, based off of what Derek told Scott he was doing last month.” She pulls her phone out of her purse and hands it to him, pictures already drawn up. “Both fairies and trolls don’t like their space to be invaded. Looks like Derek made himself a little camp by the river, just for full moons and excursions.” There are pictures of said camp, except it looks a lot like a little boy’s attempt at a hide and seek castle that’s been torn down and ravaged. “It’s been destroyed, and the aforementioned creature has turned Derek into his animal-like self as some kind of poetic justice.”

“For…trespassing?” Stiles guesses.

“Something like that.” She slides her phone back into her purse and folds her fingers together. “It’s not going to last long.”

Stiles blinks. “Shouldn’t we get Derek back to the fairies—”

“Or gnomes.”

“—and make them fix him?”

Lydia shrugs. “I doubt the spell will last until the quarter moon. He’ll be back to normal within the next few days.”

“And if he isn’t?”

“He will be.”

“ _Lydia_.”

She gives him a pointed look. “He will be,” she says again, and Stiles knows the conversation is over.

There a lot of other conversations, however, that are never over. He has a running conversation with Derek throughout the days they spend together. It’s New Year’s Eve now and Stiles could go over to Scott’s house and drink gross champagne and fall asleep on Scott’s floor, or he could stay where he is on his bed, computer in his lap, scrolling through the internet, reading up on his fairy lore.

“You fucked up, dude,” he says to Derek, who’s sitting patiently on the end of his bed, legs crossed. “Did you not know that it was their land? I mean, seriously. They screwed you right over. I’m just glad you’re a lot more docile that I would expect a wolf to be.”

Derek tilts his head.

“You know. Wolves. Like _Game of Thrones_ style, tearing into each other, or other things. _Grrr_.”

Derek blinks.

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles sighs, looking back to his computer screen. That keeps him fairly occupied, reading up on etiquette for fairies and gnomes and gargoyles and sprites and brownies. It’s a little ridiculous, but he’s seen weirder things, so he keeps his mouth shut and does his reading. It’s long, blistering minutes of silence except for the occasional click, the soft clack of his typing. He’s really zoning out when a new noise joins in.

He wants to be upset. Mad. He wants to kick Derek out, maybe storm out himself like last time, but it’s practically the middle of the night, the street is still lit up for the holiday, and he doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to make an effort. So what is Derek is lounging against the foot of his bed, stroking himself off in a loose, easy grasp, sure to not claw at his own dick? So what if the room suddenly smells like sex and sweat? It doesn’t matter. Stiles doesn’t care.

“I hate you,” he says quietly, and he’s not even talking to Derek. He’s talking to the part of his body that is betraying him to the most ridiculous extent at this current moment.

Derek makes a soft, hurt noise, and Stiles looks up, unable to stop himself. Derek’s head is tossed back, mouth half open, hips rolling.

“Fuck,” Stiles hisses.

Another whine, practically a plea. Derek spreads his legs, knocking his feet into Stiles’, and his underwear is just gone. Stiles wonders when that happened, not that he’s complaining right now, since Derek looks fucking stunning, gorgeous dick trapped between his fingers, back arching, hips thrusting. He looks desperate, and Stiles hasn’t come in his pants since he was in middle school but if anyone were going to make him do it, it would probably be Derek.

He breaks when Derek looks at him. When Derek’s eyes meet his, Stiles loses any willpower he once had, and his computer is on the floor, Stiles in Derek’s lap in a split second. The kissing is sloppy and half-hazard because of the fangs, but Stiles makes a valiant effort anyway because he wants to, because he misses kissing Derek, and it’s good just like this.

“Here,” he rasps, hand sliding against Derek’s. “Here, I can—God, Derek, just—”

Derek growls softly, nuzzling against Stiles’ neck, but his hand falls away and Stiles is left with Derek’s slick, hard cock in hand. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get over the way Derek’s body responds to him, the way he shakes and moves and thrusts, the way his breathing changes, the noises he makes. Stiles doesn’t want to get used to it, never wants to stop being surprised and delighted by Derek’s desire, his need.

“I know, I know,” he says against Derek’s cheek. “God, Derek, I know, you need to come—”

Derek’s hands come up to Stiles’ hips, squeeze, holding on tight. It’s like he’s trying to drag Stiles closer, press more tightly together, and the only thing keeping Stiles from stripping right now is this sick need to watch Derek come, to know that he made Derek feel good, to know that all Derek wanted was this and he did it, for Derek, gave him what he needed—

He does come, making this extreme, tender noise that’s half shout and half growl, and it seems like he comes forever, shooting against his chest, against Stiles’ hand, losing it until he’s a sated, limp mess.

Stiles is catching his breath when Derek lays a hand on his crotch.

“No,” he says weakly, chest seizing up tight. “No,” he repeats, pushing Derek away by the wrist. “Don’t. It’s okay. I don’t—not like this. Not when you don’t know what you’re doing. Fuck.” He tips his head back. “I know this might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever said—and that’s really saying a lot—but when you’re you again, yes. I want. You have no idea, Derek. I never stopped wanting you.”

Derek doesn’t really seem to be paying attention anymore, and that’s just as well. He’s mostly nosing along Stiles’ sweaty collarbone, and Stiles eases his way out of Derek’s lap and towards the bathroom, trying not to drown in his own guilt on the way there. He’ll save that for the morning.

* * *

 

He remembers the night in explicit detail, when Derek fucked him in his bed, in his apartment, laid him out and touched him, sucked him, opened him up on his fingers and just pushed inside of him. He had to be aware that he was the first, that Stiles had never been with another guy, but Stiles still wonders sometimes if he really knew, or if he made assumptions instead.

Stiles left afterwards, unsure what else he was really meant to do. Got dressed, left, slept in his own bed for a few hours, and drove to school with his dad. But he remembers—Derek’s mouth, his hands, the way he had pinned Stiles perfectly to the mattress, exuding the illusion of control, even when Stiles knew he could change his mind whenever he wanted.

No one could match up after Derek. He fooled around with some people, had a couple casual relationships in the year and a half between then and now, but he doesn’t care about casual, doesn’t care about past. He wants Derek. And it’s a realization that’s probably going to fuck him over forever.

“Tomorrow night is the quarter moon,” Stiles says to himself, facing his window. Derek is lying in his bed, naked this time, and Stiles is—conflicted. “Lydia says you’re supposed to be back to normal by then.”

Derek huffs.

“You should sleep in the other room, Derek.”

Derek gets under the covers.

Stiles does too. He falls asleep curled around Derek, spreading against his back, one arm around his middle. He’s comfortable like this, warm, happy, and he drifts into unconsciousness easily.

Falling asleep is the easy part. It’s what happens when he wakes up that’s so difficult.

He isn’t sure how Derek managed to go about it, how Stiles slept through so much of it, but he’s having a great dream. It’s ridiculously sexy, Derek sucking his cock, mouth warm and perfect around him, but then it’s tighter than that, more than that, too hot, too much, and Stiles gasps awake, hands reaching out to latch on to Derek’s quickly-moving hips that are dropping up and down in the air in front of him.

Derek moans, weak and lost, and Stiles digs his nails into the skin of Derek’s hips, trying to shake himself into full consciousness.

Derek is riding him, body clenched around his cock, hips and knees and body all moving in synchronized rhythm, all focused on getting Stiles inside of him, on just—using his dick. And Stiles can barely breathe, can hardly think, is wholly alert to Derek’s body and nothing else, which is why it might just be his imagination when Derek grits out the word, “ _Need_ ,” (the first word he’s said since any of this shit happened), dark and desperate and angry.

Stiles licks his lips, tries to catch his breath. “I’m here,” Stiles says, hands flattening out over Derek’s thighs. “M’here, Derek—I’ll give you what you need.”

Which is obviously to drive Stiles insane. His pace is fast, unrelenting, and he’s hard, cock arching high against his stomach, dripping pre-come and flushed red. It looks painful, but Stiles almost doesn’t want to touch, is afraid to break the spell.

When Derek comes, he sits fully on Stiles’ cock, just holding him inside, and snarls, like he’s angry, like he’s frustrated that he needs this, and Stiles wants to hold back, wants to stop himself, but Derek sucks on his earlobe and he shoots, the game is over. He hasn’t won, but he also doesn’t think he’s lost. He mostly just feels—distant. Confused. Scared. And none of that is helped by the soft edges of his orgasm and his delirium after the fact.

He tries so hard to stay awake, he really does. He fights at the exhaustion that’s tearing him down, tries to push at Derek and talk to him, say words. He thinks he must mumble a few things, get across a few words, but it’s not—it’s not anything substantial. He’s out before he can process anything else.

* * *

 

Derek is nowhere to be found when Stiles wakes up in the morning. He’s not in Stiles’ bed and he’s not in Stiles’ bathroom, so. He’s just gone. And Stiles can accept that, deal with the tightness in his chest and move on from it. He showers, puts on clothes that don’t smell like stubborn werewolf, and trudges downstairs to where his dad is making pancakes and bacon and—

“Oh,” he says softly, hesitating at the entrance to the kitchen. Derek is standing at the griddle, dressed in Stiles’ lacrosse jersey and a pair of his sweats, tossing a final few pancakes onto a plate, a tray of bacon already placed on the table.

“Hungry?” Derek asks. No fangs, sideburns, or glowing eyes. Just Derek.

“Yeah,” he answers honestly, and Derek nods at the table.

“Eat.”

He sits down and his knees feel funny and his entire torso feels drawn up and tight, constricted like he can’t breathe properly. His stomach is churning a little bit, but that doesn’t stop him from devouring the first four pancakes Derek sets in front of him, as well as a decent percentage of the bacon.

Derek sits beside him eventually, with his own plate, a mug of coffee, and they’re quiet as they indulge. Stiles is going back to school in a handful of days, the close proximity is making him _feel_ things right now, and he isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say. He supposes the allowance of Derek’s silence is an indulgence too right now.

“Did Dad leave?” Stiles asks, when the lack of sound becomes too much for him.

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Stiles.”

He turns his head, looks at Derek straight on, and it’s—intense. The first time, there had been no conversation after, no discussion about what they’d done and what it meant and—did Derek want Stiles for more than sex? Were there more feelings on his side than Stiles had assumed?

Derek’s hand comes up to gently push through Stiles’ hair, stroke down his cheek, his neck. Stiles doesn’t close his eyes—wants to, but doesn’t. Just keeps looking. “Thank you,” Derek says quietly.

“Sure,” Stiles says. “If I ever got stuck as a whiny werewolf beta I’d like to think you would take care of me too.”

Derek cracks a smile, genuine and soft. “I would.”

“Yeah, I—yeah.” He licks his lips. “Look—about _yesterday_ —”

“Stiles.”

“Yeah.”

Derek’s mouth is a surprise, soft and giving and sweet. His hands even more so, caressing his face and keeping him close without pulling, without demanding. It’s everything Stiles could ever want, and he leans into it eagerly, without the slightest bit of hesitation, because this is what he deserves. After everything, he deserves to have this.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispers, heart pounding in his throat. “About—everything—”

“Don’t be,” Derek protests, kissing him again, shallow, teasing. “Wanted you. Needed you. Still do.” He hums, tugs his fingers through Stiles’ hair. “You helped me. Saved me. Gave me everything I needed.”

“You remember—”

“Every detail.”

Stiles digs his fingers into Derek’s arms. “Derek—”

“Don’t go this time,” Derek says, one thumb stroking against Stiles’ cheekbone. “Stay. Just—don’t go, Stiles, not anymore.”

Stiles blinks, and his heart slips out of his throat and settles firmly behind his ribs, protected, and still so open and bare. He nods, because it’s the only possible answer. “Yes,” he says. “Of course. I won’t go.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is mild dub con because Stiles feels Derek is not technically in the right mind when he initiates sexual activities, however both parties are interested.


End file.
